


Elegy

by Hoodoo



Category: Beetlejuice (1988), Beetlejuice - All Media Types, Beetlejuice - Perfect/Brown & King
Genre: Art, Drinking, Drinking & Talking, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Feelings, Heavy Angst, Hook-Up, Hurt/Comfort, Murder, Rage, Regrets, Roleplay, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, low self worth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:08:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27642566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoodoo/pseuds/Hoodoo
Summary: Beetlejuice and Miss Argentina worked together for a long time, but it's still hard to admit feelings for each other.
Relationships: Beetlejuice/Miss Argentina
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a roleplay between the incredible [clairjohnson](https://clairjohnson.tumblr.com/) and myself. It focuses on Miss Argentina and Beetlejuice, and how their own personal issues keep them locked in their own private hells.
> 
> Beetlejuice is a combination of movie and musical.

He’d married, been murdered, vanquished the evil that was Juno – he wasn’t looking forward to seeing _her_ again anytime soon – said some weird heartfelt goodbyes to people he just terrorized, and was carried off by his clones in the smallest, most subdued mosh pit style ever, for an exit that was worthy of some kind of award, just for the theatrics of it. 

The second he was through the swirling mists of the doorway that separated the living from the Netherworld, he turned on his own clones and attacked them remorselessly, using claws and teeth to tear them apart, growling like he’d lost his mind and spitting like he was rabid. 

None of the clones attempted to fight back or escape. They were part of him, and he was so fucking angry – it made him angrier that they just took their destruction passively, his destruction, a destruction of self that made his hands drip with gore, his mouth taste like clotted blood, and his clothing, the tuxedo conjured specifically for something positive in his fucking waste of a life, a deeper color. 

He hated this fucking suit. 

He was too exhausted by the end of his rampage to flick it away, however. Stepping over the piles of meat that had been clones, he wiped his hands down his front and winced as they brushed over the new ventilation that goddamn teenager graced him with. He kicked the door to the waiting room hard enough that it bounced off the interior wall of purgatory, startling the assholes sitting around waiting for their stupid numbers to be called.

⁂

It had been another slow day in the waiting room. Not that Miss Argentina had any way to count “days” – time had little meaning in death – but her job was as uneventful now as it had been several hundred new arrivals ago. Staring down at her clipboard Maria crossed out the name of the last soul she’d sent back to meet their case worker. Juno was surprisingly absent at the moment, but the receptionist wasn’t too concerned. Her boss was a work-alcoholic and honestly, what else did Juno have to do? She’d be back soon. 

In a practiced motion, one she’d done a million times, Maria stood and slid open the dividing screen to the waiting room. 

“Number 5,678 Mr. Hen – “ 

The rest of the name caught in her throat when the door to the left of her was blown open, rattling on hinges that threatened to give. A split second of panic washed over her, an emotion really only needed for the living, before she saw who it was.

_Betelgeuse._

“Mr. Hendrix,” she finished, moving her gaze from the fuming poltergeist to the sorry looking dead man standing up from his seat. “Your caseworker is waiting for you – please step through those doors.” 

Maria placed her clipboard back on the desk then leaned out the window a little further, giving the older, bloodied man a deeper once over. “Back so soon, Mr. Betelgeuse? Should I pull you a number?”

_“Fuck this place and fuck the numbers!”_ he spit, literally spit, making the ghost sitting nearest in his line of fire wipe his face as he hoisted himself up – some kind of heart attack took him, no doubt, from the lack of obvious trauma and the effort he took to get out of the molded plastic chair – and hurried as fast as he could out of range. 

He could take that chair and beat down every wall in this place. He could tear apart every single soul in this forsaken pit. He could bypass the eons of fucking waiting and just march right down the hall to the Lost Souls’ Room –

– scary thing was, that option held some real fucking appeal at the moment. 

Beetlejuice glared at each and every dead person cowering in place. Fucking losers. Just like the fucking Maitlands, but worse, because they followed the goddamn directions in the fucking Handbook and were now stuck here. 

But what did that say about him? the voice in the crate in the back of his mind whispered. You tried, and you still ended up right.here.with.them. 

Beetlejuice grabbed the side of his head, mindless of the residual tackiness on his hand, and gave his hair a yank. Sometimes that dislodged the voice enough to make it shut up. 

His gaze fell on the beauty queen behind the partition. He couldn’t tell if she was politely waiting for his tantrum to subside, or if she was being indifferently patient, having seen it all before.

Maria wondered, absently, where all the blood had come from. She noticed the gaping hole in his chest and assumed it might all be his – but it was always hard to tell with Betelgeuse. His brand of “bio-exorcising” wasn’t the cleanest. However, based on his outfit, she doubted his day job was what sent him back here. The fool had tried to get married again. 

Fixing him with a cool, pleasant smile, Maria yanked a number from the ticket dispenser and held it up. “I’ll just pull one for you, then. You know the _rules –_ no number, no getting to see Juno.” 

The beauty queen leaned further out of the window and rested her chin in the palm of her hand – her clipboard and list forgotten for the moment. Red tuxedo – a classic for him. How many times had she seen him in it? She could remember at least four, and she guessed he’d worn it twice as many times before she’d crossed over. Betelgeuse never told her how old he was, but after working with him for over three decades, it was clear he had a few hundred years under his belt. 

When was he going to stop pulling this stunt? It never worked. Always ended up with him down in the waiting room – back here with her. Maria bristled, both angry and jealous that he got to leave this hell and go gallivanting top side as he pleased. Her smile tightened and she narrowed her eyes at him. 

“You never invite me to your weddings,” Maria said casually, lifting the hand from her chin to examine the ruby manicure. “Any good plans for your honeymoon?” 

She flicked her gaze up to catch his reaction.

The bitterness and pure rage inside him managed to ratchet up another notch with the receptionist’s detached apathy to his situation as she offered the ticket out to him.

Anyone else, and he’d have taken that hand off at the wrist; he could feel his teeth lengthen in anticipation of it. As it were, he snatched the paper away with enough force to tear it. He crumpled it in his fist and shoved it into a pocket without looking at it, casting his glance around the room again at all the lesser assholes who were pointedly trying not to look at him and become the focus of his ire. 

Maria’s words, her barbed little query spoken in her light accent, just poured salt into the gaping hole in his chest. 

_“Fuck you,”_ he roared. His voice cracked.

Maria was used to seeing Betelgeuse angry. She was also used to seeing him happy – manically so. The man had a way of taking emotions to the extreme. She was not, however, used to hearing the _crack_ in his voice. The next biting remark died on her tongue and she peered up from her nails, her brow furrowing. 

“Oh, don’t look so upset.” She tutted, but there was less sarcasm behind it. “You have all the time in the world to try again, don’t you? It’s not like you’re stuck here (like she was). Not for long, anyway.” 

Had this time been different from his other attempts? The pain in his expression suggested so. If he kept this up she may just bring him around back to avoid disturbing the waiting ghosts. Maria didn’t like bending the rules, but for the good of her job she’d bend them. That’s what she told herself at least. For the job.

_try again_

_not like you’re stuck here_

Her words meant to comfort stung, jamming themselves like smaller spears into his chest. She was partially right. It wasn’t like he was stuck here, so long as he could convince some dumb sucker to fulfill the terms of the contract. _Finding_ the right dumb sucker was what took the time and energy. 

That led to the whole “try again” debacle. What was the point? He’d never succeed; despite the seemingly impressive power he had in the upper world, it was useless. He was useless, like everything was smoke and mirrors and the one being fooled was him. 

He realized he had his fists clenched so hard he was shaking. The ghosts surrounding him in the mismatched furniture, patiently waiting their turn, still did their damnedest to pretend they heard and saw nothing. 

“No one is like me!” he’d shrieked in the Maitlands’ faces. 

The stupid deads sitting here proved it. He had half a mind to grab the nearest one and rip him apart like he’d treated his clones, just to continue to give his rage an outlet, but on top of everything else he didn’t want to deal with the consequences of that. Maria was still watching him, as if she expected him to do something of the sort, like she was steeling herself to have to intervene and de-escalate him, even though he knew it wasn’t anywhere near part of her job.

The shaking of his fists drew her gaze down – would he really be so brash as to tear through the souls waiting? Not that he could actually kill anyone, but it would make them have to get a new place in line … and the paperwork involved would be a headache. 

Maria lifted her Miss Argentina sash over her head and draped it on the back of her chair. Quietly, but quickly, she moved around her desk and out the side door that led to the waiting room. Like approaching a wild animal you didn’t want to startle, Maria crept forward. Delicately, she placed her fingers on the side of his arm to get his attention, keeping her back straight and her expression calm. 

“How about you come wait in the back, Mr. Betelgeuse.” 

Her voice was smooth. She had started adding in the “Mr.” when he’d gone rogue and stopped working for Juno. The days of familiarity, of her calling him “Beej”, were long gone. Maria still kept a certain level of fondness for the poltergeist, though she’d never admit it aloud.

The roots of his hair were probably the color of this fucking suit. 

When Maria physically approached and laid a manicured hand on his arm, he almost spun on her. When the pressure on his arm increased, aided by her nails digging in so hard he could feel them through the layers of fabric, he forced himself to relent. 

“Fine,” he agreed bitterly.

She’d felt him tense at her touch, and Maria briefly considered she’d made a grave mistake approaching him, until his muscles relaxed – slightly – under her fingers. Thank goodness. 

Keeping her hand on his arm the receptionist guided him to the office door. She peered out to catch the relief on the newly dead faces before shutting it behind her. 

“Take a seat.” She gestured to the chair next to her desk and sat back down on her own. She wanted to stay disinterested, wanted to keep things professional, but she couldn’t.

“So.” Maria pulled some papers together and tapped them on her desk until they were even. “Is most of that blood _yours?_ I haven’t seen you looking so … out of sorts in quite some time.”

The beauty queen looked at him from the corner of her eye, pretending to keep most of her attention on the work in front of her.

He sat where indicated, in the hard straight back chair beside her desk. If he wanted, he could look up and see the filing cabinets, the paths in the rug worn through to the subfloor underneath, the endless stacks of paper, and the hallway where the caseworker’s offices were. 

He didn’t want to. He could walk through the place blindfolded. Nothing changed in the Netherworld; it was all slog and dismay. And they thought he was crazy for wanting back out?! 

A cigarette appeared in his hand. Sticking it between his lips he glanced up at her question and statement. 

“Yeah. The blood’s mine. First from that goddamn teenager and second – ” He broke off there and used lighting the cigarette as an excuse not to finish and admit he’d torn apart his own clones in a fit of rage. “ – never mind. Nothing matters. It’s the same shit for eternity.”

Maria watched, with pointed interest, as he brought the cigarette up to his mouth. Well, at least the blood was his. Less mess for Juno to clean up later. 

“Thanks.” She drawled sardonically, bringing her own cigarette into existence. “I’d love one.” 

As she took a drag, Maria let his remark sit in silence for a few moments, unsure of how to respond. Most of the dead seemed to be having an on-going crisis – and if Beej had been feeling the same, he’d never let on. 

“You’ve always been one for the dramatics. But never nihilism.” She paused, “ – also, did you just say teenager? You know what – I _don’t_ want to know.” 

She threw her hand up at that, waving the question off. He was a scumbag, to be sure, but the thought of him being _that_ scummy was not an idea she wanted to entertain.

He’d have felt bad about not offering her a smoke if he was in a different state of mind. As it were, it didn’t even register until she pointed it out. Even then he couldn’t quite bring himself to care. It was easy, however, to fill in the blanks she left out. 

“It was a fuckin’ _green card thing,”_ he growled. “Most teens – especially gothy ones who think their existence is the worst of anyone, ever – are dumb as shit. Easy to manipulate. Except this one was too damn clever for her own good. She used – " 

It was on the tip of his tongue to admit his naked, desperate desire to be accepted was used effectively against him, but that made sour bile rise in the back of his throat and he had to swallow it down again. 

” – ugly art to impale me,“ he corrected after only a brief hesitation. He took a deep drag, and was dismayed to see that some smoke drifted out the hole in his chest. That kid must’ve punctured a lung. He sighed as he pulled at his shirt to try and cover it. 

From the corner of his eye he watched her watch him. He didn’t want her pity. He didn’t know _what_ he wanted, but he knew he didn’t want her pity.

Maria felt herself relax at his growled response – pleased to hear he was still a _normal_ scumbag of the con-man variety. She couldn’t hide the twitch of her lips into a smile when he admitted how he kicked the bucket this time around. She’d seen a lot of dumb ways to die, but ugly art was a first. Chuckling through a drag, she eyed the smoke coming out of his chest, causing her lips to curl even further upward. 

As good as it was to have him talking, the anger radiating off him was still obvious. She could practically feel it on her skin. Whenever he got out of hand Juno was usually around to deal with him – but not this time. She was still surprisingly absent. Fortunately, Maria had worked here long enough to know what her boss’s trump card was. 

“Juno’s been away from the office today.” she started, putting out her cigarette in the glass tray on her desk. “And you look like you’re in the need of a distraction after … _your little accident.”_

The receptionist spun her chair to face him, one slender bare leg crossed over the other, and raised a brow at the bloodied ghost. 

“How does a drink or two at Dante’s sound? On Juno’s tab, of course.” 

She smiled, scarlet lips parting to show off her straight white smile. In many ways the two were opposites. Beej was unapologetically himself, moss and all, while Miss Argentina went to great lengths to appear perfect. Even though she had let some of that anxiety go in death, bad habits were hard to break. 

“I’ll join you – if you don’t mind. I could use some time out of the office.”

In an effort to appear disinterested in the state of both his clothing and the new hole he was going to have to figure out how to close, Beetlejuice kept his eyes on the paperwork she’d straightened. A kid’s profile, from the looks of it. One perk about working as Juno’s assistant way back when was helping the kids when they came through –

He glanced up sharply when Maria mentioned Dante’s. Actually _suggesting_ it, and _accompanying_ him to it. He would’ve thought that the beauty queen would pretend that place never existed, although he knew she must have been both scouted and offered a job there. 

"On Juno’s tab? A drink or five sounds great." 

Some time that old hag was going to show up again, slathered in Sandworm spit and gastric juices, and he’d much rather not be found here if possible. He stood up abruptly, making the wooden chair squeal against the floor. 

"Fine. I’ll let you take me out.”

“Only drinks, Mr. Betelgeuse. I’m not paying for any _other_ services.” 

Miss Argentina hadn’t had a chance to be out in quite some time. With an eternity stretching out in front of you, there was little rush to do much of anything other than your assigned job. Peering down at her burgundy gown, she also realized she hadn’t changed her outfit in years – wearing the same dress to two different parties used to be a mortifying thought when she was alive. 

How things change. The beauty queen stood, and with a few moments of concentration, changed into a red cocktail dress. Her French curled hair now in tight waves around her shoulders. It felt _nice._ A little like being alive, even. Even if it was just to go out and watch this man get drunk off his ass. But she understood his desire to live again – didn’t all ghosts wish they could be top side? He was certainly the most tenacious about getting there. 

“All right, ready when you are,” she said while smoothing down her new outfit. She turned from the older man and started towards the office exit, throwing a ‘are you coming?’ glance over her shoulder at him.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her hands smoothing down the fabric of her choice of dress. With his cigarette still caught between two fingers, he ran his thumb over his lower lip, thinking about the differences between the dead and the breathers changing clothing – the breathers had to take it off and put it back on, versus simply willing a new outfit into existence. 

Of course the dead could be titillatingly mundane, if they chose. It was too bad this was the never-closed office, and there was a waiting room full of ghosts on the other side of the glass partition – 

At her invitation and with a sigh, Beetlejuice stepped off the road that daydream was headed. He’d lost the chance with her a long time ago. 

He flicked his still lit cigarette into the ether and decided if she was going to be dolled up, it wouldn’t be right for him to accompany her in what he was wearing. Between one step towards the door and the next, his blood-soaked tux became his favorite striped suit. He left the hole in his torso under his shirt. 

“Lead the way, muñeca.”

_tbc …_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drunken confessions and wanting to comfort. Art by the incomparable [clairjohnson](https://clairjohnson.tumblr.com/), who was also my rp partner in this. She does a damn fine Miss Argentina.

_“Lead the way, muñeca."_

Maria did her best to shoot him a look of disinterest, save for the arch of a manicured brow. Shaking her head and turning away to hide the ghost of a smirk, she headed towards the office exit. It had surprised her, more like mortified her, when she found out that he spoke Spanish. Spoke a lot of languages, apparently. A walking polyglot. Something that he’d neglected to mention when they’d first met. So many snide remarks and salacious comments that she thought were for her pleasure only, turned out to be shared. The day he’d replied in her native language, fluent and precise even with the grate of his voice, made her want to die all over again. 

“Oh I’ll lead – but I’m sure you could get to Dante’s in your sleep, _viejo verde.”_

The beauty queen waited for him when she exited, stepping in tandem with his stride as they made their way to the netherworld’s brothel. Fortunately, they had an excellent bar. Maria gave his suit an appreciative once over, happy to see him not drenched in blood, then moved her gaze forward. 

“So what happened?” Her voice was even, but there was amused interest behind it. “How did _‘The Ghost with the Most’_ get _shishkabobed_ by a moody teenager? Sounds like it should have been a cake walk.” 

Miss Argentina was used to poking fun at the poltergeist, and though his anger had radiated off him in waves earlier, he’d seemed to be cooling down now – what was the harm in asking?

Her questions and the amusement behind them made him stutter step. There’d always been teasing between them – light, heavy, pointed, obnoxious (in his case) – but that stung and any chance of forcing the recent past behind him was shot. 

"It was a fucking set up. I am _not talking about it,”_ he spit, his voice threatening to crack again. 

If that was happening because of the hole in his chest he was going to have to get it patched quick. In the upperworld, he’d have punctuated his words with something: fire under each sole as each foot hit the ground in a stomp, popping light bulbs (impressive but baby-ghost stuff), or simply fading into the shadows leaving only the shine of silver eyes and unnaturally luminous, unnaturally sharp teeth as a warning to the person who dared stepped over a line. Here, he had a few tricks but nothing imposing like that. 

He had to settle for the sharply bitten off words and hands made into tight fists shoved into his pockets. It wasn’t too late. He could turn on his heel and walk right back to the Lost Souls’ Room.

At his sharp, heated response Maria pulled back from him slightly, taking an unconscious half step to the side while she continued to walk. Sure, she’d expected him to still be a little upset – but whatever had happened cut him _deep._ Both physically and metaphorically. She furrowed her brow at him and let out a scoff, tucking her arms tight across her chest. 

“Excuse me for asking. You sound like a petulant _child,_ you know?” she chided. “Sulking about like this. It’s not a good look on you, Betelgeuse.” 

Dante’s came into view as they rounded a corner and she’d never been so happy to see it in all her afterlife. She liked this man, **usually,** but something was off about him. He was furious, but there was a bleakness to him she wasn’t used to – she’d heard it back in the office, and she felt it now. Maybe the girls in the Inferno room would pull him out of this. The thought both comforted her and left a tightness in her chest she didn’t care for. 

“You don’t have to tell me what happened, I’m not your therapist.” She stayed in step with him as they approached the building. “But I ask, as your _bank and cohort_ for the evening, have a drink. You’re really bringing the mood down.” Maria gave him a cheeky, well humored smile.

He dropped his chin and glared at her from under his brows. “You’re not my _mother,”_ was on the tip of his tongue, but even the _word_ mother made him want to spit venom, and despite the teasing, Maria didn’t deserve to take the brunt of it. 

“Oh, I’ll have a drink,” he ground out instead, “the mood’ll have to take care of itself." 

They walked through the swirling mists that always filled the alleyways of the Netherworld and the gaudy neon lights from Dante’s were visible before the building itself. There were a few shapely demonesses on the balcony of the cathouse who called out when the two of them walked towards it. 

A chorus of: "Hey BJ!” “Welcome back, honey!” “The girls have been waiting!” greeted them. Beetlejuice ignored them, took the lead, and pushed open the door. 

Two things hit him like a solid wall: the advertised air conditioning like an arctic blast and a second blast of music loud enough to be a force of nature itself. Sitting on a stool just inside the door was the bouncer. 

“Привет, Ivan,” he greeted as the two of them were sized up by the Russian. 

“Никаких проблем сегодня, Beetlejuice.” It was an order, not a question. 

“Wouldn’t think of it.” Ignoring the stages and that a few of the girls glanced over – especially ignoring the high-pitched squeal Bambi gave that could be heard over the pounding music – he turned to Maria. “Find a table. I’m going to go get that drink.”

Unlike Betelgeuse she didn’t ignore the women on the balcony. Instead, Maria tipped her head up, peering with a bemused smile at the flirtatious greeting. As far as she knew Beej had never flush with cash – the man must have a ridiculous tab.

A mix of chilled smoke and thudding music washed over her when she entered, making it hard to hear the Russian the two men in front of her were exchanging. 

_Wouldn’t think of it!_ Maria heard when she got closer. Betelgeuse had turned to her, his expression still lingering with fake reassurance, and told her he was going to go get _That drink._

“Those drinks,” she corrected, “I’ll have a Manhattan – don’t let them forget the cherry.” 

The beauty queen pointed a manicured finger at him to emphasize her point before turning to look for a table. There were a few spots closer to the stage, and to the girls, but Maria fixed herself in a booth carved into a wall further back. The music was damped instantly as she sat back in the red domed cushions and she sighed with relief. A single candle on the table lit at her presence.

He nodded his understanding of the order and slipped away through the patrons to the bar, fully aware that not only were some of the dancer’s eyes on him, but also the two bouncers and probably the club’s Madame, from up in her office above the floor.

Leaning over the bar, he caught Niphera’s attention, despite them pointedly trying to ignore him. 

“Tab’s covered tonight!” he insisted, and finally, _finally_ got Maria her Manhattan and himself a bottle of Dante’s self-brewed hooch – it wasn’t supposed to be doled out by the bottle but he promised the moon. With his finger in a highball glass to hold it securely against the bottle he carried, he slipped back through the crowd to the far wall, where he found Maria seated comfortably in a booth. 

She looked good on the velvet seat, with the candlelight on her. 

“Your drink,” he said, setting it carefully onto the table in front of her. “Two cherries, complete with stems." 

He left off any words about tying those stems into knots with his tongue. With her, that ship had sailed a long time ago.

She had started to wonder if he’d gotten lost, or grabbed his drink and hurried off somewhere else. Maria wouldn’t put it past him. But when he came slipping through the crowd, Manhattan in hand, she was pleasantly surprised. 

“Thank you,” she said, and took one of the two cherries out of her glass. Sweets had always been a favorite of hers (though she could rarely indulge when alive) and Maria wasted no time biting off the bottom of one of the cherries and placing the stem on a napkin. 

“An entire bottle?” She questioned while taking a sip of her drink. “I will have to cut you off at some point, Mr. Betelgeuse.” The beauty queen gave him a coy smile and then turned her attention to the stage. Two of the girls had started their dances, and her eyes followed the fluid motions of their hips. 

Averting her gaze Maria took another large sip of her drink - realizing that she may need to get another one soon. 

“You seem to have a lot of _friends_ here.” The words were cool and she didn’t look up as she said them.

Pouring himself two fingers’ worth, pausing, then dumping two more in, it would’ve been nice to have ice. The air conditioning was something special, but even a booming place like Dante’s couldn’t score ice. That was an upperworld thing, and one he wished he’d had the chance to enjoy while he was there. But that teenage _bitch –_

Before he went down that road much further, he threw back and swallowed the drink in two big gulps before slamming the glass back down. Luckily her glass was in her hand at the moment so it didn’t spill, or he’d be getting her a new drink before she finished the first. That goddamn hole in his chest burned, and to his dismay it felt like some of the alcohol was seeping out onto his shirt. Ignoring it, he poured himself another glass.

Maria’s lips were as red as the cherry she had so delicately eaten. He snorted at her mild threat to cut him off. 

"The girls here are friends to anyone with cash,” he bit out as he raised his glass again and took another mouthful. He realized that sounded cruel, and luckily Bambi and Punkin were on the main stage at the moment, having fun, and missed the comment. Softening his reply to amend it, he said, “This is someplace I can come and they treat me well. Like I matter. Unlike pretty much anywhere else, it seems." 

That came out much more bitter and personal than he’d intended. Fuck this booze; Maria had nothing to worry about, he was going to have to cut himself off!

His softer, mildly guilty expression surprised her after the sharp comment. Maria was _further_ surprised, and frankly a little offended, by his follow up. How many times had he screwed up royally and Juno had let him off with a slap on the wrist? He’d been her assistant _forever –_ she may have been firm with him, but he required it. And what about the two of them? They hadn’t been friends or anything, but she enjoyed having him around, appreciated their banter, and had been close to … other things.

Maria finished her drink and took in a long breath. “You like to burn down bridges.” She pulled the cherry out of the empty cup. “And your social skills have a tendency to resemble _arson.”_

There was a short silence before the beauty queen turned her brown eyes up to him. “You really feel like you didn’t matter for the decades we worked together under Juno? Or are you just feeling sorry for yourself tonight?”

Her sharp assessment made him scowl. It was accurate, of course, but did it need to be said out loud? 

He polished off another glass but this time didn’t refill the highball immediately. Finding his still lit cigarette in the ether he stuck it back between his lips as he caught the attention of one of the waitresses walking the floor. Wordlessly he indicated Maria’s empty drink, confident Niphira would remember the cocktail. 

“I said _pretty much anywhere else,”_ he repeated, as a reminder. “The fucking breathers are the reason I’m back here again. And you know working under Juno didn’t make me special or mean anything. I was just another cog in the endless wheels of this goddamn place. So yeah. I don’t matter and I am feeling sorry for myself. Honestly, you’re the only – ” 

It was on the tip of his tongue to finish the sentence with the truth – you’re the only good thing here, you’re the only one who ever takes the time to ask, you’re the only one who ever seemed to care, you’re the one who got away – but he wasn’t sure exactly which one he’d confess, so it was better to just cut it off before he said something she would believe was the booze talking and have a story to laugh about with the rest of the drones back at the office. 

Instead he found another cigarette, complete with an elegant gold cigarette holder from the same pocket dimension, and held it out as a peace offering.

Betelgeuse signaling the waitress to refill her drink was a blessing. She had been putting up a fight with herself to get a second, knowing she should be staying sharp, but he’d thankfully made the decision for her. 

When he started to open up about how he’d died this time she listened intently, her eyes watching his exaggerated, already slightly impaired gestures. When he’d rattled off that he didn’t matter, that he bitterly was feeling sorry for himself, she opened her mouth to protest – only to clamp it shut when he continued. 

_Honestly, you’re the only –_

There was a long beat of silence after he spoke. His eyes seemed to look past her while he thought about what to say next – what to say about her. But only more silence stayed between them. What had he intended to say? Maria considered asking him, her nerves already buzzing with all the implications, but she decided it best to keep quiet. What would be the point, anyway? It was probably going to be something crude or sexual, something entirely _Betelgeuse,_ like ‘you’re the only one worth ogling at.’

The negative thoughts were hushed when he reached towards her with a cigarette. It was clasped in an ornate golden holder, the light of the candle catching the engravings. Maria took it from him delicately like she might break it. 

“Thank you,” she said softly, then lit the end and took a long drag. “It’s very pretty.” 

The waitress returned with her drink and placed it down on a coaster. Instead of leaving, however, the demon made herself at home on Betelgeuse’s knee. The scantily dressed woman leaned back against his arm and arched like a cat, giving him a wink while she giggled. 

“You going to need anything else tonight, Beej? You never just come around for drinks.”

Her fingers brushed his as she accepted the cigarette holder from him. The engraved scarabs seemed to skitter along its length, but that was a trick of the candlelight, not anything of his doing. Maria’s quiet admiration of it gave him a little thrill of pride, that he could create things of beauty and not just be gross, but he kept his mouth pinched shut. The waitress tottered over–Beetlejuice knew Madame didn’t require the waitresses to wear stiletto heels, so her footwear was her own poor choice – and set the new cocktail in front of Maria, then flounced her barely-there skirt and took a seat on his knee. That should teach him from manspreading –

Her simpering giggle might have worked if he wasn’t in such a foul mood. As it were, he scowled at her overly-intimate insinuation and jerked his leg out from under her, unseating her without caring about her surprised gasp. 

"If I need something else I’ll fucking ask for it,” he spat, then fixed her with a hard stare. “If you wanna be a dancer and earn tricks, then do it. You’d better get more practice on those heels, though." 

Offended, the waitress half looked like she wanted to smack him in the face with her tray, and half wanted to cry. She turned on her heel instead and made a very obvious effort to not wobble as she walked away. He knew he’d cost him their waitress for the rest of the night, and there was a good possibility Ivan or Lyra were going to pay a visit to this booth very soon to suggest politely – in front of Maria – that if he couldn’t be civil to the staff, he should leave. 

Pouring himself another drink, he dared glance up at her to see if this display of shitty behavior was going to cost him her company tonight.

Maria took a closer look at the intricate designs – were they beetles? Scarabs. Like the one on his ring. She had assumed he’d snagged this holder from some grave, but now that she saw the details … _had he made this?_

Her thoughts were interrupted when the waitress placed a drink in front of her. The polite smile she wore dimmed noticeably when the women sat on Betelgeuse’s lap. If there had still been blood running through her veins a splash of rose would be blooming on her cheeks. She scolded herself at the involuntary envy that bubbled in her chest. Betelgeuse was a _fool –_ an absolute mess of a man who was _inappropriate_ at the best of times and **destructive** at the worst. Regardless, it’s not like she’d expected anything else, right? He was a regular, as he’d so kindly pointed out, there were probably plenty of girls here he’d slept with – girls that apparently liked to see him come around. 

The _venom_ in his voice when he jerked his leg away shocked her. She’d _never_ seen him talk to a woman that way – especially one that was interested. He was usually all smiles and snake oil charm if a lady like that came waltzing over. With a parting, harsh comment about her ability in heels, Betelgeuse turned from the waitress and poured himself another drink. When he looked up Maria’s expression was one of surprise, the previous look of jealousy almost completely gone. 

“You didn’t have to speak to her like that. You should apologize,” the beauty queen rebuked, keeping her disapproving gaze on him while she took a sip of her new drink. There was a moment of silence before she continued. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you turn away an invitation like that. You said some breathers screwed you over, but is that all?” 

God, she didn’t want to push too hard. But whatever had happened was weighing on him more than usual.

The mouthful of booze he’d gulped burned like hellfire as he forced it down. 

_"Where’s **my** apology?!”_ he snarled, slamming his glass back down. This time he didn’t care if shaking the table made her drink spill. “I’m straightforward. People want something from me, I deserve _compensation._ I’m not unreasonable! Those fucking _breathers –_ that goddamn snot-nosed teenager – " 

The rage that had been tamped down for a bit just being with her roared to life again. He ground his teeth so hard his jaw hurt. When he spoke again, it was to his hands on the table. 

"She fucking – I gave her what she wanted. I upheld my end of it! Dad gone? Done. Adults out of her house? Done. Generalized mayhem? Done. She was a kid, so it was silly stuff – but it was fun. Then, then she wanted her goddamn mom back, and I can’t do that! The stupid kid _left me._ Did she think there were no fucking _consequences_ to that?" 

He paused for an unnecessary breath and kept his head down to hide the tears that burned worse than the alcohol. 

"Told her the only way to fix it all was to marry me. The get outta jail free card,” he snorted with a strangled laugh like it was a good joke. “She agreed, stupid kid, then she and her friends _ganged up on me_ and she fucking _ran a pole through my chest,_ sending me right back here to this godforsaken wasteland!”

His voice had risen to another spitting roar by the end. Did he leave parts of the story out? Of course he did. Everyone creates their own narrative; he was positive if he asked any other person here – Maria included – their story would not be their full truths. 

His throat dry, he unclenched his hands – would Juno’s tab cover the gouges he just left in the table? – and grabbed his bottle again. Forgoing his glass, he drank directly from it. The alcohol compounded on itself, leaving a more potent burn in his gut this time. He locked eyes on Maria as he set it down again, not caring if she saw the extra wet in his eyes.

All she could do was look on in stunned silence while he snarled out his grievances. He was talking so _fast –_ words coming out like a machine gun. When she caught sight of the glossiness in his eyes she had a sudden urge to reach across the table and grasp his clenched hand. But she didn’t. That would be crossing a line she wanted to keep firmly in place. 

When he had seemed to finish, punctuating his last sentence with a large swig of alcohol straight from the jug, she spoke. Her voice was composed and soft, unintentionally trying to soothe the raw pain on his face. 

“It sounds like you had a good time up there causing trouble with that kid.” She started, trying to begin on a positive note. “But what do you mean _left you?_ And what did you expect her and her friends to do - – let a grown, dead man _marry her??”_

She stopped then, averting her eyes and taking a quick sip of her drink. Her intention hadn’t been to be aggressive – but the whole thing sounded ridiculous. Taking a long breath she continued.

“You said it yourself, Beej.” His nickname slipped out before she could catch it, and she stumbled for just a second before continuing, “She’s just a kid. A kid who wanted to **see their mom.** I’d love to see my mom – I miss her _every day._ Why would some teenager ditching you to find their …” 

Something occurred to her then that hadn’t before, and she furrowed her brows at him curiously. “Did you become _friends,_ or _think_ that you were friends, with this girl and the others?” 

Miss Argentina had never seen him with any friends. Most people found him mildly irritating or flat out _hated_ him – he wasn’t exactly popular, and it wasn’t not his fault. Regardless, her chest tightened at the realization. Had Betelgeuse thought he’d found some companionship? Only to have it thrown back in his face? She couldn’t help the look of pity in her eyes when her gaze met his again.

He didn’t want her _reasonable assessment._ He didn’t want her _accusations._ He definitely didn’t want her _pity._ He thought he’d found someone in the upper world who understood him, who knew the pain of being invisible. A fucking suicidal teenager, who then used what he wanted most in the world – life, and even more than that, _acceptance –_ against him like a professional barracuda duping the world’s easiest, densest mark. 

The beauty queen across the table, who’d been decent enough to not just go and leave him to his misery when he threw his tantrum, latched onto that fact, and deep in his increasingly muddled mind, he knew that was significant. 

“I thought we were friends,” he admitted in a choked whisper. 

Embarrassingly, like before, his voice cracked. He attempted to cover it with another overly-large swallow from the bottle. Although only half full at this point, it felt heavy in his hand. The alcohol was affecting him just like he’d wanted it to: numbed.

The pull to reach for his hand again, to offer some sort of comforting gesture, was strong. In an effort to physically stop herself, Maria folded her hands in her lap and clasped her fingers together tightly. There were so many things she could say to him. So many instances she could point out where he was his own worst enemy in the “making friends department” – but she suspected he knew this already. Which was probably why this hurt him so much.

“Betelgeuse …” 

What did she even want to say to him? That she was _sorry?_ That she understood what it was like to hate yourself?? It’s how she ended up his coworker in the first place. All her perfection, all her work, her entire life had felt pointless when she’d lost Miss Universe. 

“… you should slow down. Keep it up and I’m going to have to drag your drunk ass home.” 

She gave him a sweet smile then, one that couldn’t hide the sympathy still etched on her face. In an act of solidarity Maria took a large swig if her own drink, covering her mouth politely as she coughed it down.

_tbc …_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Further drinking, making a scene, and a stumbling walk home.

His eyelids felt as heavy as his hand, and when he blinked, tears finally fell. He wasn’t so drunk not to know that was embarrassing, so he wiped his face roughly with the back of his hand. 

Maria was sitting so proper across the table from him. She thought him pathetic; he knew that deep in the depths of his soul, and even deeper, he knew she was right. He’d been reduced to trying to trick a _teenager._ A teenager who turned the tables on him, who fucking _lied_ and sent him right back to the Netherworld – 

Anger returned, nipping at the heels of the well of self-pity he was floundering in. He used it as a rope to haul himself back up, but words failed him this time. Inarticulately he roared, slamming his palms so hard on the table it made his bottle tip over. 

Luckily Maria’s glass was still in her hand, and doubly lucky his bottle fell away from them both. 

The luck lessened when he noticed staff of the club clustered and whispering as they looked over at their booth, and it fled entirely when he caught sight of the Madame of the place heading their way. She wasn’t accompanied by any bouncer, at least. 

Yet. 

Stopping at the front of the table and adjusting her full skirt over her hips Madame Bouriseau smiled politely at the beauty queen. Diplomatically the expression remained as she turned her attention to Beetlejuice, although it hardened the lines on her face a bit. 

“Miss,” she said with a nod to Maria, in greeting, “ and Beetlejuice. Although we are always happy to host guests, certain behaviors are not tolerated in the club.“ 

She turned to the ghost who had managed to set the tipped bottle upright and was scowling.

"You are fully aware of the rules. Another outburst like that, Lawrence, and you’re out.”

The use of his name, Beetlejuice glanced up. He opened his mouth as if to spit something back at her, but the set to her face brooked no argument. Sullenly, he nodded. 

“You’ll be paying for the cleaning of the upholstery,” she added, nodding towards the plush bench that had absorbed some of the alcohol he spilled. “If you would like to follow me, I’ll find you a new seat and freshen your drink." 

The last part of her offer was directed solely at Maria.

The roar and subsequent slamming of the table startled Maria. Her back straightened and her eyes went wide, hardly noticing the bottle of booze as it tipped over. 

“Beej …” the words were just above a whisper, and whatever else she had planned to say vanished when, she assumed, the owner of Dante’s approached. The beauty queen looked up at her apologetically – even though she wasn’t the one to cause any problems, Maria felt a certain level of responsibility for Betelgeuse. 

_Another outburst like that, Lawrence, and you’re out._

Lawrence?? _Was that his first name?_ No one had ever called him that. Not in the several decades they worked together – and he had never brought it up. How the owner knew it was a mystery to her. 

At the offer of a new table and drink Maria stood, nodding politely at the older woman while she did. 

“A new table would be great, thank you.” She said and lifted her half empty drink from the table. “As for the drink refills, I think we’re _both_ all set … we’ll finish what we have here and call it a night.” 

Miss Argentina turned to the intoxicated poltergeist still slouching at the table, checking to see if there would be any protest. 

“Let’s go sit at a different booth, hmm?” Maria prompted, and placed a delicate hand on his shoulder. 

She gave him a light, comforting squeeze to get his attention. It wasn’t crossing the line, _yet,_ but she was dancing on it. Her thumb absently rubbed the stripe on his jacket as she peered down, a mix of sympathy and frustration swirling around in her chest. She needed to bring this man home soon.

Being chastised reduced him to an inch tall. The soft hand on his shoulder – when did Maria get up? – made it worse, his fuzzy brain realizing that both women were looking down on him with what he imagined was disgusted pity on their faces. 

The fingers straightening the collar of his jacket felt nice, however. 

Beetlejuice pushed himself to his feet, fumbled the bottle before getting a good grip on it, and only took a second to get his balance once upright. Looking into the open space of the club, he realized he’d been wrong. It wasn’t just both women looking at him. It was most of the other girls on the floor, and some of the patrons too. 

The music was just as loud, but the laughing banter and hopeful chatting – from the patrons, securing a dancer’s attention for a little private time, for the girls, securing a patron’s wallet for a little extra cash – had died down to see the show he’d provided. For free. 

He told himself he didn’t care. 

"Yeah. We can take a different booth if you want,” he replied, although he didn’t voice that it better be close because he wasn’t sure how far he could walk while the floorboards undulated under his feet. At least it wasn’t a problem to bring the bottle back to his mouth for another swig.

She saw the way he eyed the floor skeptically when he agreed to move – with how much of that bottle he’d downed already, Maria was surprised he could stand. Not removing her hand, but sliding down to the back of his arm, she led him, <>slowly to the table next to them. 

“I know you’re not in a great place,” she pointed out, her eyes following his shuffling feet as she guided him, “but this was intended to be _fun,_ compañero.” 

Maria helped him ease down into the new booth then situated herself across from him. In a few quick sips she finished her drink and set the empty cup aside, hoping he’d be reluctant to keep drinking if she stopped. The brew he was chugging was much more potent than what had been in her glass - but two cocktails in were enough to start feeling the licks of a buzz. She was a lightweight in life and death, it seemed. 

The realization had hit her when he’d knocked over the drink that she’d have to help him home. Maria had never been to his place – there hadn’t ever been a reason, and she found herself intrigued on what she’d find. 

“So – Lawrence?” The beauty queen looked across the table at him in amusement. “You never told me that was your name.”

Madame stood aside to let them pass, briefly catching Ivan’s eye to impart a “you may be needed to move his dead weight, drunk body later” look. The Russian bouncer nodded his understanding but remained unobtrusive. The staff here were nothing if not professional. 

“Please let me know if you need anything,” she said politely to the beauty queen, and only the beauty queen, before leaving. The Latina beauty seemed to have a handle on Beetlejuice, even if he was loud and drunk. 

Beetlejuice leaned more heavily into her arm than maybe he should have. It was nice to have a friendly arm to steady him. He plopped down into the new seat, accidently dropping the bottle a little more loudly on the table than he meant to. The tabletop just came up so _fast._ The bottle rocked but stayed upright this time, although it landed slightly out of easy reach. He muttered a partially slurred apology to Madame, only to find her gone. 

Maria’s soft question made him look back to her. 

“Never asked,” he replied, his ess more sibilant than normal. His tongue felt too big for his mouth. “No reason to. How many years was it before you tol’ me your name was Maria?" 

Truthfully, she _had_ told him and he’d known a long time. Before he got to know her better, addressing her as "Miss Argentina” was his own doing, despite her less-than-pleased response to it. Only when she’d finally laid into him about it, using some creative Spanish that he immediately stored to memory, had he quit. He liked seeing her passionate about something instead of her typical cool demeanor. 

“Lawrence is just a stupid name, along with everything else." 

Longingly he looked at the bottle, but it was too much effort to get it and drink more.

Maria scoffed, but it was in good humor. He’d introduced himself as Betelgeuse, friends (when he had any) called him Beej. That was that. He was cagey about his age, where he came from, how he died – there didn’t seem any reason to push. 

“Oh, I told you my name,” she corrected and folded her arms over her chest. “Multiple times, actually. You introduced yourself and I had no reason to believe you had another name hidden away … though I suppose I should have suspected. I’ve known you longer than I was alive – ” That thought struck her for a moment, and she paused to regain composure before continuing. “ – and you’ve never told me anything about yourself … the one time I tried to ask you about how you ended up working for Juno, you didn’t speak to me for a month.” 

She knew he must have killed himself. That much was certain when someone was a civil servant. However, most ghosts wore their death on their sleeves, so to speak. It was all very personal, yes, but at the same time very public. Whether you had been dismembered, burned, drowned, or **cut –** it was out for all to see. Not with Beetlejuice. There was no obvious cause of death, and it had intrigued her from the moment she met him. She had her theories, but none of them were based on anything tangible. 

The longing, lazy look he was giving the bottle set her at ease. Maybe he’d finally worn himself out. 

“Let me take you home, Beej.” Maria reached across the table and moved the almost empty bottle further away from the drunken man. Then, stepping over the line, she placed her hand over his and offered a smile. “You’re a mess.” 

It took several moments to realize his companion for the evening had made mention of how long they’d actually known each other, and poked a stick at some memories. He really wasn’t very nice to her. 

Tears filled his eyes again, the fuckers. He tried to blame it on the booze. 

"Christ. Did I get a bottle that used water from Archeron?” he muttered, squinting to read the label of the bottle that was too far away. That was a mistake; it squeezed the tears out. He wiped the back of his hand across his face. “I meant to get _Lethe."_

Maria’s soft hand on his own refocused his attention. It was such a juxtaposition, her uncalloused fingers and manicured nails compared to his. With the exception of those beautiful nails, her hands were unadorned. No ring on any finger. Sure, the Miss Universe contestants were to be unmarried, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be engaged. He had never once asked her about what she may have left behind. 

He was also suddenly transfixed by the fact her nails were the same color as the stone in his ring. 

Finally realizing she’d basically asked a question, Beetlejuice nodded. "Yeah. Sure. Sounds good. Your place or mine, doll?" 

The esses were still slurred. If the alcohol continued to muddle him, maybe it’d be enough to forget all the recent shit that had happened to him. 

The implication behind his follow up question rattled her, and she responded with a forced laugh. Flirting was second nature to this man, and he was blind drunk, it was easy for her to brush it off. Not removing her hand from his, she slipped her fingers under his palm and stood, gently tugging him up with her. 

_“Your place,_ **tonto –** so you can get some rest. I just want to make sure you get there and don’t end up passed out on the street.” 

Maria gave him another soft tug, trying to coax him out of the booth. With the way he’d been stumbling before she knew getting him home was going to be a challenge. He wasn’t exceptionally tall, but he easily weighed twice what she did – an arm slung over her shoulder might do the trick. 

Her insistent tug spurred him, and Beetlejuice struggled to his feet, using the table for balance as he got there. The slight woman bolstered him for a moment between her hip and the table till he managed to not sway, and more surprisingly, she nudged herself under his arm. It felt like her arm slipped around his waist, but that couldn’t be right … 

"El tonto?” he muttered, refusing to allow his fuzzy brain to focus on her arm around him. “I’m not that naïve. More accurate to say I’m el torre, or maybe at this point I should be el ermitaño." 

They appeared to be moving, or somehow Dante’s Inferno Club was moving around them, easing them towards the exit like the building itself was going to vomit them back onto the street. Vaguely, he was aware that the bulk of Ivan was not far behind them. Still, he kept up his loose tarot card train of thought. 

"An’ what does that make you, Maria? El sol? Hmmm. La estella? No – _la emperatriz._ That’s it. My emperatriz." 

Just like he wasn’t quite sure how they got from the table to the door, suddenly they were awash with heat on the street. Dante’s was already behind them, a blistering light of red and orange in the mists. 

Thankfully, he wasn’t as difficult to hold up as she had feared. The beauty queen smiled absently to herself while he prattled on about tarot cards. She wasn’t very familiar with tarot, not beyond the very basics, so she merely hummed her agreement at him while he spoke. 

"The Empress? Why that one?” She questioned back with the ghost of a smile, and raised a curious brow at him. “I didn’t know you were _into_ this sort of thing. I thought your interests ended at women and booze." 

Her own restraint muddled by alcohol, she nudged him lightly with her hip, emphasizing that she was teasing him. 

"Among the many things I don’t know about you, where you live is one of them – you’re going to have to help me out here.” Maria stopped on the sidewalk and peered around, catching glimpses of buildings obscured by veils of heavy, dark mist. The Netherworld was so abysmal. She couldn’t _wait_ for her time as a civil servant to be up, just a few more decades, and then she could put in for a top world pass. See the _sun_ again. The blue sky. Just for a little while, a few hours would be enough. The man hanging off her didn’t realize how good he had it being able to sneak up to the land of the living. 

Beetlejuice didn’t rise to her bait. Instead, he focused his leaden feet on keeping moving in the correct direction, trusting them to find the way home like well-trained horses, and focused his fuzzy mind on her first questions. 

“La emperatriz,” he repeated, rolling the syllables out of his mouth. “She’s femininity. She’s compassion. The same as you. She’s the most beautiful … just like you." 

He bit his own tongue at saying any more. Something too intimate, like, "Those judges did you dirty, Maria. You deserved the crown that year,” even if it was the truth. 

Suddenly he wanted a cigarette, to cover the embarrassment he was ambushed by. As she liked to say, “it’s all very personal”, and he knew her well enough that admitting he saw her at her pageant would step over a line, even if he would only mean it as a compliment. Too bad he was too uncoordinated to have a smoke at the moment. 

Luckily, though, they’d come to the hole in the ground he called home. 

“Welcome to my oubliette." 

He attempted a flourish as if it was a thing of grandeur, and managed to throw himself off balance. 

_tbc …_


	4. Chapter 4

If she hadn’t been so focused on keeping him upright his words would have knocked her down. Maria had heard this man flirt a hundred times over, but nothing ever so flattering and eloquent. _The most_ beautiful. Her stomach twisted at the compliment. Both unbelievably flattered and heartbroken all at once. Had he always thought this? Or had he really just gone overboard with the drinks tonight? 

She was about to respond, to express how completely touched she was by his words, when he started to talk again. Beej’s announcement of their arrival, and subsequent stumble, snapped her out of her thoughts. When had they gotten here? She hadn’t even realized they’d gone through a door. 

Didn’t matter. The Netherworld was a strange place, Betelgeuse was strange, it was easier just to accept things as they were. What was harder to accept, however, was his home. It was practically barren, save for a bed, table, and wooden chair. The only light in the room came from a few scattered candles that revealed debris strewn across his old wooden floor.

It looked like a crypt. It might _be_ a crypt. 

“This is where you stay?” she asked, unable to hide the shock in her voice. Her place was hardly a palace, but it was clean. Bright. She couldn’t imagine ever spending a night here. Let alone however many hundreds of years he’d been dead. The mere concept made her chest tighten in pity. 

“Let’s get you over to the bed …”

“Gives me incentive to get top side,” he muttered half under his breath at her blurted question. “Who cares anyway? I close my eyes and it’s gone. I don’t see it. No one else does either." 

She hadn’t taken her arm from around his waist. With her continued assistance, he shuffled over towards his bed. The distance wasn’t far, but as if to help bolster the fact his place was more fleabag hotel than the Ritz-Carlton, his foot caught a stack of Handbooks for the Recently Deceased-–how did _those_ get there? It couldn’t be that he’d stolen them from recently deceased in order to con them-–

–-and he stumbled. The four walls around them did a looping dance. Automatically his grip over her shoulders tightened even as his other hand went for the rusty iron foot rail on his bed. He managed to remain upright, but had jerked her along with him. 

As he recaught his balance, the room settled back into place. 

She’d been close while walking with him, but there’d still been a detachment. He’d managed to scatter that with his ham-fisted, foolish misstep; Maria had been pulled right to him. 

With a jerky, unnatural movement, he lifted his arm off her. 

"Sorry,” he apologized.

Top side. She and others, including Juno, had wondered for decades how he’d manage to find ways to the world of the living. There were rules. Passes you needed to apply for -- but he, in normal Betelgeuse fashion, skirted by it all. 

She was about to snap back at his flippant comment when he tripped over what appeared to be a pile of handbooks. Maria reminded herself to inquire on those later. Thankfully Beej caught himself on the bed, saving them both from falling face first on the wood floor. In his effort to stay balanced the arm around her shoulder moved forward, effectively pulling her into his chest. One arm still wrapped around his waist, the other now flat on his chest, she peered up at him with embarrassment. He wasn’t a particularly tall man, but he was sturdy, and she felt unusually small pressed against him. 

When he detached himself with a slurred apology Maria took in a shaky breath she didn’t need then helped him sit down on the bed. God, he looked so disheveled -- more so than usual. His eyes were heavy, shoulders slumped, and his tie was loosened and askew around his neck. 

Without waiting for permission Maria slipped the loose tie up and over his head and hung it gently on the foot rail. Turning back she hesitated, just for a second, before helping him slip his jacket off. She ran her hands over his shoulders and under the jacket, sliding it down his arms. The beauty queen reached around him, leaning in close, and retrieved the jacket and reunited it with his tie. 

“From what I can see of your bed I doubt you take these off when you sleep.” She crouched down and angled his large black boots for him to see. “However, I can’t bring myself to see you place these nasty things on the mattress.”

Some quick finger work on the laces and a few short tugs had both boots off. She placed them neatly at the foot of his bed. Maria brushed some questionable dirt off her hands and returned to the older man, giving him a satisfied once over. Gently, she pressed on his shoulder for him to lay down. 

“Get some rest, Alborotador. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around again soon.”

He felt loose, like his joints had been separated. Maria’s gentle guidance around the end of his bed to the side and helping him sit was appreciated, but that was nothing compared to her carefully removing his tie. At some point it’d become loosened, or even in his inebriated state he’d have slapped her hands away. Nobody touched his neck, that was a rule. But she was quick and efficient and the fabric never touched his skin. That would’ve been enough, but then, but then–- 

_She assisted him out of his jacket._ Any other time he’d have made some off-color comment or pushed the flirting so hard it would have bordered on desperate. But muddled by the booze and still feeling the deep ache of rejection from those people in goddamned Connecticut, just to have her be attentive, just to have her hands peel him out of his outerwear–- 

A small sigh slipped past his lips. If she heard it, she ignored it. 

Then she didn’t leave well enough alone; she actually crouched in front of him in her cocktail dress and heels-–everything about her was in stark contrast to the rat’s nest he lived in, and he included himself in that melancholy assessment; he should have never brought her here-–and worked the laces of his boots loose and pulled them off his feet.

The care and concern pained him. The simple act of touch took him apart. 

When she took his shoulder he almost moaned. Like a man dying of thirst in a desert, he wanted nothing more than to drink in that simple friendly touch. 

It took all his will power to not grab her hand. Not for anything inappropriate, but just to keep it there, so he could soak it in. Instead, he sat dumb and dull as she straightened her skirt and bid him farewell. 

_“Why does everyone keep leaving me?”_ he whispered. There had been a time very recently he’d bellowed that, but here, all he could expend the effort on was something closer to a whimper.

Maria had started to make her way out of the room when he spoke, the sound of his broken voice pulling at her more than the words themselves. Not that the words didn’t catch her attention, and in many ways, hurt her. He was drunk, she reminded herself, and sad. She could stay with him a little longer -- just until he was unconscious, she already crossed a line by being here, and basically sprinted past said line when she helped him undress. 

“I’m not _leaving you,”_ Maria corrected while she walked back over to the bed. “I was just going home. I have no illusions that you won’t be darkening my waiting room doorstep again soon." 

Gently, she sat down on the bed beside him, her leg brushing up against his own. 

"Now lay down. Go on.” She pushed at him again, moving out of the way for him to lift his legs up. The beauty queen stayed seated beside him, her torso twisted slightly to look down at him while she spoke. 

“If anyone left, it was you, Beej.” The words were soft and sad, and she reached out absently to adjust a crease in his white(ish) button up. “Got yourself in so much trouble that Juno had to fire you -- and then you were gone. Disappeared like smoke for years, only to show back up in the waiting room looking pissed." 

Maria had been so relieved, and so unbelievably angry to see him after all that time. It was that absence, that complete cut from communication, that had brought her back to calling him Mr. Betelgeuse -- a title she already found herself skipping again in favor of his nickname.

Maria appeared at his side again, and blearily he looked up at her. Her nudge wasn’t rough but he was so unsteady it was almost enough to topple him. He managed to not just fall back like a drunk–-haha–-but only just barely. 

Her words came to him as if through cotton wool. Disorganized thoughts moved lazily inside his head; it was so much easier to be angry than this drunken, dazed state he was in. The fact that the beauty queen had even given him the time of day was almost too much to take and much too much to even try and puzzle out. 

In the reaches of his memory he did recall how upset she’d been to see him again, and her cool reception to him ever since the final incident that sent him packing–that he’d designed for at least the chance for freedom. Tonight was the first time in all the times he’d reappear she’d ever done anything more than nod politely and exchange chilly words. 

As she sat primly, lightly beside him, the bed frame buckled. It didn’t startle him, he was more than used to it, but he could imagine the surprise on her face as the mattress sagged her closer to him. Her delicate attention to his shirt made him catch her hand. 

"Come here,” he croaked out, before clearing his throat, giving her a half-hearted pull. “I gotta tell you something.”

The unexpected dipping of the mattress when he laid back surprised her, and she ended up with her back pressed against his side. Maria might have just fallen on top of him, if he hadn’t grabbed the hand that had been adjusting his shirt. 

Deep brown eyes assessed him curiously at the request. He was quite capable of saying whatever it was he needed to say from where she sat now - but the pull of sympathy was still strong. Without a word Maria leaned down to him, her free hand bracing her body on the mattress next to his. Being this close, even closer than when she was helping him walk home, she could pick up the smell of moss and wet dirt that clung to his clothes and skin. There was also the faintest smell of roses -- so subtle that she could have second guessed if it was there at all.

She did as requested, and leaned over him. A stray lock of hair escaped from its careful pinning, and tickled his cheek. Maybe if things between them had been different, maybe if he hadn’t fucked everything over in that spectacular way that was apparently his specialty, he’d have permission to brush it back. To lift it and settle it behind her ear. A minor but intimate gesture.

But he didn’t. He let her hair stay where it was, because it was also nice to feel it on his skin.

Now that he had her there, he was at a loss for words. Lots of things flitted through his head: “You deserve better than me.” “I missed you.” “Wanna go see Saturn? I know a safe place-–" 

In the end, he frowned a little as he focused on her features. She was so close everything was blurred; he didn’t think it was because of the alcohol. Why in the ever-loving hell did she put up with him? 

"Thank you,” he whispered.

There was a long silence while his eyes searched her face. Maria could tell he was considering something -- and the fact that it was taking him this much time started to worry her. Why? She wasn’t sure. 

At this distance she was able to get a good look at his face. It was round and scruffy, and strangely complimented by his Roman nose. Even in his current, sullen state his lips still had an upturned curl to them. She’d always liked his lips.

Her attention was taken away from his face when he spoke, and she smiled at him in response. 

“You’re welcome.” 

Blame it on the alcohol, on their proximity, on the raw vulnerability he’d shown her -- but without having time to process her actions, her face closed the distance with his. The kiss was soft, and her lips barely pressed against his own. 

It took only a few seconds for what she had done to register, and when it sunk in, she pulled back. Not all the way, but enough to give him a dazed, almost apologetic look. She hadn’t planned to do that, would have sworn up and down that she would never be kissing Betelgeuse right up until the moment she did. Maria started to sit up a little more and opened her mouth to speak, but had no idea what to say.

The brush of her lips against his was a shock that wasn’t dulled by alcohol. 

His hand automatically went up to touch her, to slip to her jaw to keep her close, but the split second that it took for him to try she pulled back again. But the motion was in place; although he missed keeping her where she was, his fingers touched the junction of neck and shoulder. 

There was nothing more important in his existence than tasting her lipstick again. 

Eyes wide, his tongue swiping his bottom lip in a move he didn’t give conscious thought to, Beetlejuice breathed out, “Mi hermosa emperatriz Maria …" 

With a little additional pressure from his hand he encouraged her back towards him as he surged up to her.

_tbc …_


	5. Chapter 5

She felt her chest tighten at his uncharacteristic compliment, and when his firm hand started to pull her back down towards him, she didn’t resist. He met her halfway this time and their lips crashed together in complete contrast from the first soft kiss. In a smooth, but hasty movement, Maria slipped out of her heels and tucked her feet up on the bed. The hand that had been fussing with his shirt was now flat on his chest, while the other braced her over his body. 

When their tongues met Maria momentarily tensed for whatever taste would follow - and was surprised. It wasn’t foul, just earthy. With a not unexpected mix of hard liquor and cigarettes. The tension in her shoulders relaxed and she pressed into him further, her hand slowly traveling up his shirt to the first button.

That she _didn’t_ fight him off but actually shifted to be closer and put more weight on him–pathetically, a tiny moan escaped his throat as the kiss deepened. 

For a moment he was immobilized by the sheer surprise of this turn of events. The hand that had brushed her shoulder found a resting place and he moved his thumb over the soft skin of her collarbone. His other hand was the problem. Although he felt her fingers walking a trail along the buttoned placket of his shirt, and although his first instinct was to reach around her and grab at her ass or hem of her skirt, he didn’t. This wasn’t a hasty lay in a back alley of the Netherworld. This wasn’t one of the girls over at Dante’s, who’d squeal at being man-handled. 

Beetlejuice fought his base desires and simply put his hand on back, below her shoulder blade, and slipped it along her dress to the swell of her hip. The fabric lay smoothly, like a second skin, and his hand felt large and coarse against it. 

He tried not to be too demanding with his mouth, but half-failed that endeavor; with no reason to breathe, it was easy to go a little harder and a little longer. When her tongue nudged passed his lips he immediately lapped at it, lifting his head to push into her.

If this was a drunken dream, he didn’t want to wake up.

When the hand not placed on her shoulder reached past her view, Maria assumed it was going for her rear, or leg, or any other body part he could grip onto. When instead he gently placed it on her back and caressed down to her hip, she hummed appreciatively into his mouth. Though she never planned on being with Beej in this way, she’d thought about it. Everyone was allowed their **ill advised fantasies -** but none of them were like this. How delicately he was handling her, save for the hungry kissing, wasn’t something she thought he was capable of. Maybe it was because he was drunk … 

His tongue pressing deeper into her mouth interrupted her train of thought, and she moved her focus back to the buttons on his shirt. Without leaving his lips she adjusted herself on top of him, her slim stomach now pressed against his round one. She slid her knee, slowly, between his legs then sat up, tugging his partially undone shirt to say she wanted him to sit up, too. 

“Get my dress?” She breathed, indicating to the zipper on her back. Maria’s mouth still hovered against his as she spoke, her fingers working the last few buttons on his shirt.

Were there any sweeter words to be spoken than, “Get my dress?” Maybe, but in the heat of the moment he couldn’t remember ever hearing any. 

Maria’s tug pulled him into a seated position; her straddling one thigh made it a bit awkward but there was absolutely no way he was going to ask her to move off him. He had an underlying fear that if bodily contact was broken, she’d come to some kind of sense and bolt.

Besides, the slight weight on his leg, while not warm–no one in the Netherworld was _warm_ – was welcome in a moderately intimate way. 

More intimate was her fingers freeing him of his shirt, and her lips still brushing his. To return the favor, Beetlejuice found the tiny zipper pull at the back of her dress. Topside, he’d just fling her garment away. Here, he gave it a gentle tug. The faint sound it made as it parted was a sigh of promise.

Maria arched into his chest as he pulled the zipper down. When his hand reached the small of her back the red fabric slid off and pooled around her hips. 

Her delicate hands pushed his shirt off his shoulders then moved to the hair covering his chest. Red nails raked down his skin without leaving marks, traveling until they met his waistband.

“Get the rest - _take off the rest.”_

Her plea was mumbled against his lips and she lifted her hips from the mattress to let the dress fall the rest of the way. The beauty queen’s fingers worked the button of his pants with no success, and she broke the kiss momentarily to focus on it - her brows furrowing as she peered down.

Beetlejuice gaped as Maria’s dress fell away from her torso. Any lacy undergarment was nice, but hers was more than he expected, although he wasn’t in the least bit surprised it was beautiful and matching. He’d have put money down that they’d be red, and would’ve lost that bet when the fine black lace came into view. 

“Cariño–” he breathed out, then realized he’d frozen, staring, even as she had made a simple request and was doing her damnedest to work open his trousers. 

Upper arms slightly hobbled by the shirt pushed over his shoulders, he grabbed her hand and brought it up to his mouth. He kissed her fingertips and smirked. 

“Don’t go breaking one of those nails,” he admonished lightly, and dropped his own hands to his fly. 

Even with her pressed against him he made short work of the button and zipper, and shucked his pants as quickly as possible, not caring if they turned inside out in his haste. They did, of course, like an idiot; and instead of taking the time to properly extract his legs he got impatient, clicked his fingers once, and the whole mess was on the floor. He may not have all the power here as he did up top, but at least that was handy. 

“Sorry my underwear isn’t as fancy as yours– wasn’t quite expecting company– ” he muttered half under his breath, cutting himself off as he found her mouth again.

Her breath hitched when he pulled her hands away and kissed her fingers, the act so shockingly tender all she could do was watch. It didn’t last, though, and he dropped her hands to focus on his button. Beej made quick work of his pants, muttered out a self-deprecating joke, and kissed her. Maria kissed him back and smiled against his lips. It was good to hear him joking - it was one of the things she liked about him most. 

Now mostly bare, Maria took the time to run her hands over his shoulders and arms, delighting in the tense muscles that twitched under her touch. Their kissing had slowed but deepened, and she moaned indulgently into his mouth every time his teeth caught her tongue or lip. She was past the point of turning back now, not that she wanted to, and broke the kiss to lay back on his bed. Slowly, she lifted her hips off the mattress and slipped her underwear down her legs, tossing them to the end of the bed with her foot. The lace bra followed soon after and she was left completely naked. Her large brown eyes flicked up to his and she arched her back in invitation. 

Every fuck she’d ever imagined with him was quick and dirty – bent over a desk or pressed to a wall. The delicate way he touched her? The slow, passionate kissing? Letting her take the lead? It was so far off how she’d pictured him that it barely seemed real. Real or not, she wanted him to touch her again.

He’d never admit it – even in his most drunken state or in his deepest despair he had a _reputation to uphold_ – but any beautiful woman agreeing to be with him was almost incomprehensible. And for Maria, a renowned, _official_ beauty queen, to kiss him first, kiss him back, undress him and then undress herself … something didn’t add up in his fuzzy brain, but it was best to keep a gift horse’s mouth shut. 

At the sight before him, a rose made prettier by the literal dirt around her, he swallowed and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. She was a work of art: delicate frame, perfect breasts, slim waist, long legs even without heels – his eyes raked her, and like a slavering beast he knew he was, he had a difficult time tearing his gaze away from the junction between her legs. 

The subtle movement of arching her back only inflamed him more, and as loose as his briefs were, they were suddenly too tight over his aching cock. 

With less grace than her, he ditched his underwear too. She still waited with anticipation – he hoped – so he crawled up the bed, pressing a kiss to one knee, then the other, then to her inner thigh just above it, knocking her legs open. He glanced up the flat plane of her stomach to make sure she was okay with that, but he wasn’t sure what he’d do if she wasn’t.

The sight of him bare sent a shiver through her. He wasn’t a model by any means, but he was masculine, with a broad chest and strong arms - and even though he was covered in a layer of dirt and moss - his face was always disarmingly handsome. The package he was carrying between his legs was disarming as well, arched at attention and thick. Maria’s focus quickly moved to her legs when he kissed them, his soft lips marking a trail up her thigh. The brush of his stubble against her sensitive skin coaxed out a light gasp. 

When he glanced up at her, as if waiting for permission, she almost scoffed. The man who grabs at any women in arms distance checking to see if he can go further with the naked lady in his bed? He was…very drunk. But she _wanted_ him - so she stomped down whatever rational voice told her to slow down, that he never was this kind sober. That this was a mistake. Maria swallowed hard and opened her legs wider - a soft whine of want escaping her parted lips. She reached a delicate hand up and cupped her own breast, kneading it gently as she peered down at him, her other hands balled up in his sheets.

Non-verbal permission was still permission. The slight relaxation of her legs allowing them to fall open, her cupping her tit as if to showcase how incredibly perfect it was–Beetlejuice smirked, licked his teeth, and made his way up her inner thigh with kisses that probably had a little too much bite to them. 

He had to remember this was _Maria,_ not some random lay. 

At the apex of her legs, he paused for half a second, waiting just in case she came to her senses to haul off and punch him away from her - _not that that’s ever happened before, nosiree, just a hypothetical scenario that had no basis in his past –_ then without a word, he dropped his face at the altar of her pussy and closed his entire mouth over her to worship.

The smirk, and subsequent nipping of her legs, sent a spike of arousal straight between her thighs. Maria watched with pointed interest while he hovered over her, for just a moment, before sealing his mouth over her pussy. The instant, overwhelming sensation caused her to buck her hips up, but his strong hold kept her in place. 

“Oh my g-oh fuck.” Her words were gasped out, and the hand that had been gripping the sheets tangled itself in his hair. Her other hand continued to work her breast, harder now, with her fingers inching up to press against the sensitive nipple. 

“Don’t stop - please. It’s _good,_ so good.” The words sounded desperate, but she didn’t care. All her focus was on keeping this man and his tongue between her legs. As she continued to murmur out encouragement, her thighs closed lightly around his head.

Her legs compressing the sides of his head and her hand deep in his hair only spurred him to go harder. Wrapping his arms under her thighs to keep her tight to him, he lapped the flavor of her as if he couldn’t get enough. His tongue found the nub of her clit and teased it with quick flicks before he captured it between his lips to give it a little extra sucking pressure; before she could shove him away from overstimulation he delved further and slipped his tongue into her pussy in a poor substitution for the body part that was trapped achingly against the mattress at the moment. 

Her shoving him away was a low grade fear in the bottom of his mind, because a tiny but persistent voice kept informing him that this is _a pity lay,_ or _this is just a drunken dream,_ or _this is a prime example of you making a fool of yourself because she is thinking of someone else while you’re between her legs._ So he worked till his jaw was numb, relishing the sounds and sweet words Maria said aloud as if they truly were for him.

The way he was using his tongue had her seeing stars. Not that she should be surprised he was good at this, with a libido like his and 600 years, Maria was sure he’d been around the block (probably several times). A talented flick to her sensitive bundle of nerves had her letting out an embarrassing high pitched moan. Peering down her body at him Maria had the sudden urge to return the favor. 

“Stop, hold on,” she urged, giving his hair a small yank in the process. 

When Beej sat up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, she could see a flicker of concern in his face. She didn’t wait for him to speak and closed her mouth over his in a deep kiss. Her lips moved from his mouth to his chin, briefly ghosted near the start of his neck, then her hand dropped from his shoulder to wrap slender fingers around his cock. 

Maria brought her lips back to his and gave him a few leisurely strokes before pushing him back onto the bed. Her eyes stayed on him while she leaned over and dropped her mouth to his cock, giving it a light lick up the center. Slowly, Maria brought the entirety of him into her mouth and wrapped her (now smudged) red lips around the base.

She pushed against him and told him to stop, and that was that. Beetlejuice pulled away, wiping his mouth, willing himself to commit the taste of her to memory. She could find her own way out; he was going to lay here and jerk off to the thought of her. 

He didn’t know if there were going to be tears as he did it, but decided he’d blame any on the booze. 

But before he could turn away so he didn’t have to see her leave, she kissed him. _Kissed him._ The taste of her lipstick was still intoxicating. Before he’d had enough, she’d trailed to his jaw, where he tipped his head back – then jumped as her cool fingers took his cock. 

The soft dry friction made him moan – one of which she swallowed in another kiss – then like he was a rag doll he let her push him back. He lifted his head to find her watching him with dark eyes, then her tongue and mouth were on him and he sucked in a breath. Her red lips around his cock, her hair framing her face and tickling his thighs, her looking up to catch his eyes – Beetlejuice slipped a hand into her hair and groaned, unable to stop himself from rocking his pelvis up into the inviting wet of her mouth.

The first roll of his hips caught her off guard. When he rocked up a second time she relaxed her jaw and let him slide down her throat, the tip of her nose pressing against his mess of curls. Maria kept a steady pace, her head bobbing rhythmically save for the occasional moan around his cock. It was so easy to pretend he was warm like this, her lower body snug in his sheets and her arms pressed lightly against his stomach. 

When his thrusts started to become more insistent she pulled off - leaving a barely noticeable ring of scarlet lipstick at the base of his cock. Maria took him in her hand again and gave him a few long, slow licks, peering up at him in the process. There was something so perversely satisfying watching him come apart under her - twitching at her touch, at her lips, like he’d never had someone do this before. Which was silly, she knew, but it stirred something in her to imagine. She pressed a soft kiss to the head of his dick and flicked her eyes up to catch his, waiting to see if he wanted more.

The suction, the licks, the vibration from her moans, the light scratch of her nails against his stomach–Beetlejuice arched against her, his hips finding rhythm in time with her movements. She drew groans and gasps from him. 

When she released him it took a second for his brain to catch up, but before he could be too disappointed at the loss of stimulation her hand closed around him and her tongue went back to teasing. 

Lifting his head off the dusty mattress he looked down just as she looked up. The sight of her lips, her bright lipstick slightly smudged, pursed to kiss his cock seared into his memory. His eyes met hers. A faint lift of her brow, like an invitation, like a _dare,_ made him lift his upper lip in a half smirk. 

In an explosion of movement, he sat up and grabbed her. She was light, and changing her position wasn’t difficult, especially when she wasn’t expecting it. Flipping her back to the mattress, ignoring her squeak of surprise, Beetlejuice slipped his hands under her knees and rotated her till he was situated almost properly between her legs. 

“No more teasing,” he growled, and pushed forward.

Maria was on her back in a flash. It was exhilarating to be flipped so easily, so hungrily, and she let out a gasp of surprise. Beej wasted no time putting her exactly where he wanted her. She gazed up at him with eager anticipation when he quickly settled his significantly larger bulk between her legs. 

The words growled against her ear sent a wave of heat between her thighs, a sensation that was completely overshadowed when he pressed into her. Her mouth fell open in a silent moan. The foreplay had left them both soaked, and he penetrated her in a single thrust. The initial stretch was divine, and she dug her nails into his back in response.

Before he had a chance to start a rhythm she wrapped her legs around his lower back, holding him in place pressed against her. She _liked_ being this close. Liked how she felt under the large cage of his body. Maria tipped her head up from the mattress and caught his mouth, her tongue pressing past his lips to meet his own. When he kissed her back, when she felt completely consumed, she let her legs fall to the sides.

The bite of her nails into his skin made him hiss in sharp response to the mild pain, but it barely muted the pure pleasure that radiated from this initial push. 

That she didn’t continue to claw his back but instead keep him tightly to her and kiss him was a surprise. But as her mouth, still tasting of lipstick – he never knew red was a flavor – found his, as her tongue dipped intimately passed his teeth, as her thighs squeezed him but then relaxed, he gave into the overwhelming urge to rut into her. He groaned deep in his throat at the sweet wet friction created between them. 

Even as white hot bliss began shorting out higher brain function, that tiny voice in the back of his mind, the one that never quite took a rest, still made noises that this was simply out of pity, that there was nothing, _meant_ nothing – 

Beetlejuice lifted his lip in a half snarl and buried his face in Maria’s hair, trying to shake loose that voice and simply focus on the pleasure he hoped was shared.

Maria broke the kiss and let out a choked gasp when he started to thrust. With each snap of his hips she moaned, her delicate hands gripping his shoulders for support. When Maria angled her hips off the bed, just slightly, he bottomed out - causing a white flash of painful pleasure to course through her. 

She could hear him, _feel_ him, snarling near her neck while he pressed his face into her hair. With needy arms she tried to pull him closer so his chest would press against her own. Maria brought her mouth up to his ear and begged. 

“Please, god it feels so good - harder. Do it harder. Beej, _please.”_

Saying his name between sultry, desperate moans was not something she’d ever imagined doing. Not in reality, anyway. Those were saved for the occasional office daydream - because _actually_ sleeping with him was, **had been,** out of the question. It wasn’t just because she thought sleeping with him was a bad idea, she’d spent the night with plenty of bad ideas, but he’d never _asked._

They’d casually flirted for _years,_ and not once had he tried to take it anywhere. Any other pair of legs, living or dead, was propositioned - but not her. It was humiliating to say it hurt her already fragile self esteem. The devastation of not being pretty enough, not being _perfect_ ; enough, was what sent her to an early grave. Yet, he’d called her beautiful tonight. And a sinking feeling of being _that easy_ threatened to creep up on her.

With her hips angled up, rocking them in time to meet each thrust, she draped her long legs over his back. How _good_ it felt to be under him was obscuring any negative thoughts, and Maria continued to gasp out her encouragement to keep it going. 

At least if this was a pity fuck she was doing her damnedest to make it good for him. Maria’s moans, her tight grip, her legs locked around his waist all spurred him, and at her fevered words in his ear he could only obey. 

She’d pulled him down on to her so he couldn’t shift an arm to slip between them and finger her clit, so he as her pelvis canted slightly he worked to press his pubic bone against her, which had the delightful side effect of keeping his cock buried completely. But he also did as she asked, thrusting until he found a rhythm that seemed to satisfy her request, that quickly – too quickly! – was going to be the end of him. 

The harder rhythm was just what she needed. Combined with the rough stimulation on her clit Maria found herself close. She squeaked out unintelligible praise while his trusts stuttered and she dug her nails back into his back. 

"I’m close - Beej. Don’t stop.” 

Her voice cracked and Maria dropped her head against the mattress, sending a puff of dust up in the process. It took just a few more hard, well placed thrusts for Maria to reach her peak. She cried out, her muscles clenching and fluttering around him while she rode her high. Desperately she caught his lips with her own and kissed him, moaning into his mouth as she felt him follow her over the edge. She kept herself wrapped tightly around him in the process – wanting to feel his weight, which was strangely comforting, on her while they finished.

Her words barely filtered through the ringing in his ears: a combination of what would have been blood pounding and the voice in his head that grew in volume, both fueled by the pleasure building in his gut. 

“She’s lying. _Lying._ She’s faking, to get this over and done with. You’re a fuck up, you’re an idiot for falling for it again – what is wrong with you? You know no one wants you like this – " 

Under him, Maria grasped at him, her nails digging into his skin, her legs squeezing him in a way that she had to have locked her ankles behind him. Her wordless cry and the clench of her pussy around him spiked his bliss and despite the sour bite of the words between his ears, his hips felt differently and they snapped into her brutally as he crested his peak. 

He cried out – it may have been her name, it may have been a wordless bellow, he had no faculties to know what sound he made, at the moment – and it was muted immediately by her mouth on his again. 

For a moment, everything was right in the universe. Euphoria is a hell of a drug: her tight grip on him, their joining so intimately, nesting in the afterglow of shared pleasure. Then, sharper than her nails in the small of his back, that voice grew claws and dug into his thoughts. 

Maria gasped in breath she didn’t need and traveled her fingers up his back and into his hair. With a ghost of a smile she leaned up to press her lips on his chin, a soft hum of satisfaction in her throat. She loosened the tight grip of her legs around his hips, only slightly, not in any rush for him to roll off. Having their bodies pressed together, with him still buried between her thighs, only made the afterglow last longer. 

She looked up from kissing his chin, her lips only dusted with a light pink now that most of the color had been smudged off. 

“Betelgeuse …” 

There was a long pause following his name as she tried to find the words for what she wanted to say - what did she want to say? That it was great? That she wanted to go again? That she’d fantasized about doing this in the office, where she’d watch him from her desk like a schoolgirl with a crush? _A crush she finally acted on._

No – that would be humiliating - and wouldn’t help his already inflated ego. Suggesting another round would stroke it just the same, but she was willing to make the concession if it meant he’d fuck her like that again. Any feelings she’d had about this being a bad idea were easily pushed away while so comfortably curled up under his large frame. 

Not wanting to keep him waiting she opened her mouth to speak, settling on the safest route of suggesting a repeat performance, but stopped when his expression caught her off guard. 

_tbc …_


	6. Chapter 6

He felt dead – well, deader – inside. In a moment when there should be residual bliss, a sweet connection after such intimacy – _especially_ with someone like her, someone he’d not only lusted after but someone he got to know and found he _liked –_ the standard response was to bask in the glow and drift down from it gradually. Together. 

Instead, that internal, in _fernal_ bitterness surged enough that Beetlejuice tasted it in the back of his throat. Semi-coherent and contradictory thoughts tumbled through his head.

He was such a fucking idiot. He’d fucked – literally – any slim chance he’d had with Maria now, one of the only people who put up with his shit. Although the effects of the booze he’d swilled were dwindling, he told himself he’d just taken advantage of her in a drunken stupor. She was kissing him and cooing and relaxed under him because _she was playing a role,_ doing her best to get through this as quickly as possible before she could escape him. 

Yet at the same time …

He was such a fucking idiot. He’d been used _again._ As a self-proclaimed ‘Ghost with the Most’ as he liked to spew, he was repeatedly duped. The thing he hated most about himself, that he ,i>wanted and needed companionship, was always his downfall. He was so desperate for the slightest bit of attention people took wild advantage of him, and he never fucking learned his lesson. 

Caught in a web of his own self hate, Beetlejuice barely noticed Maria’s continued caresses or her smile. As good as it was to have her so perfectly under him, he scowled. 

“Betelgeuse …”

His name from her lips deepened that scowl, and with a hard glare into her eyes – that he couldn’t hold for more than a second, “Ghost with the Most”, what a fucking joke – he shoved up and away from her and whatever she was going to say: sweet lies or angry venom.

Maria felt any imagined warmth drain from her body when he pushed away from her. The loss of his weight, of the comfort she’d felt just moments before, was completely shattered by the glare he’d set on her. His eyes had been cold and angry – _and she had no idea why._

_Had she done something wrong?_ She replayed what they’d done, the things he’d said, over in her head. Everything had seemed _right –_ more than right. Anxiety began to bubble up in her chest and she finally sat up off the bed. Betelgeuse had angled his body away from her in a position that screamed _fuck off._ Maria shook her head in confusion, trying to understand how the man that had begged her not to leave, had called her beautiful, _had fucked her so perfectly,_ now wanted nothing to do with her. 

The original reason why they’d gone to Dante’s hit her like a ton of bricks. He’d been inconsolable when he’d arrived in the waiting room. Blood soaked, angry, and devastated at the loss of people he cared about. And here she was – a pair of legs to bury his anguish in. Calling her pretty was all it took to have her jumping into his bed. God, and he didn’t even initiate it, she had. She wasn’t even a first choice for him to proposition while sad and drunk. 

Swallowing down a sob that threatened to creep up, Maria reached out and placed a small hand on his arm – cursing herself when it trembled slightly. 

“Betelgeuse …?” 

Saying his name caused the first tear to roll down her cheek, and she quickly brushed it away with her other hand.

Legs swung over the edge of the bed, his back hunched and his hands so tight on the edge of his stained mattress that his knuckles hurt with the pressure, the same rancid thoughts spewed by the same gibbering voice echoed through his head. 

He was a fucking idiot. Played for a fool by his own dick and her. Again. _Cuck_ was more than apt. The story of his fucking life. 

There was no way in this world or the upper he’d ever have had a chance with a woman of her caliber. He’d manipulated his way here, and as loathe as he was to admit it, deep down he knew that was the root of his problems. Nothing real came from that; hadn’t the very reason he’d ended up back in the reception area been because of it?! 

People saw the chinks in his armor, and used well-placed arrows to bring him down. They took what they wanted, took whatever he was so eager to give just for just a little acknowledgement, they used him – they fucking _used_ him – 

– Beetlejuice scowled again, but it was down into his own lap this time.

Maria shifted on the bed beside him, the broken frame made them both tilt towards each other whether they liked it or not. And she must like it, she must _love_ seeing him further broken, because she continued the lie by touching him and saying his name, again. 

Anger – as hot as the euphoria had been moments ago – flared in him. 

_“What are you still doing here?!”_ Beetlejuice roared as he spun on her. His vision was very slightly blurry, altered by his now slitted pupils; sometimes in rage he had less control over keeping them human and there was certainly no point in reining them in right now. “You’ve had your fun, you got what you wanted – _¿qué más quieres?_ To kick me in the teeth some more?!”

_what are you still doing here_

If her heart had been beating it would have stopped. The weight of his words, roared with venomous repulsion, pressed heavy on her chest. Maria couldn’t help the tears that freely ran down her cheeks and fell off her chin. Still so focused on his burst of rage she barely followed his next questions. She blinked a few times, silent as the tears continued to fall, and tried to understand what he was insinuating. _Was he gaslighting her?_ How could he really believe any of that? Maria opened her mouth to speak, to try and articulate how devastated and confused she was, but the more she tried to search for the right words the angrier she got. At him and at herself. 

_“Fuck you,”_ she seethed, her voice surprisingly steady for how distraught she looked. How could she have been so stupid? This was _Betelgeuse._ Whatever rose-colored glasses she’d been wearing before he effectively slapped off her face. 

Feeling very exposed and embarrassed Maria covered her chest and shifted off the bed. Hastily, she searched for her clothes, slipping on her underwear and dress (abandoning her bra). When she picked up her shoes at the end of his bed she stooped, giving his rage filled snake eyes a long look. This is what she needed to remember.

“Thank you.” The words were bitter and she couldn’t help the tremble now. “I don’t need to wonder what being with you is like anymore. I can shut the book on my naïve fantasies.” 

She took a single step back, her mouth in a tight line while she shook her head. “I’m the same down here as I was up there. Foolish and never good enough – basura. But I can take myself out.” 

The last word came out with a sob and she looked away from him – she needed to leave.

Oh, she was _good._ An Oscar worthy performance: those tears streaming so theatrically over her high cheekbones; her expression surprised bordering on devastated; the faintest, barely-there tremble in her hands. She was a waste working a reception desk.

Her spit profanity was exactly what he expected. Exactly what he needed. It vindicated him that he was able to at least partially expose the truth of her. If he was able to twist and reduce whoever was using him to standard curses, he won. 

Beetlejuice only watched from the corner of his eye as Maria haphazardly scooped up and stepped into her clothing. She didn’t ask for help rezipping her dress. 

Then, instead of simply stomping out, instead of a stinging slap across the face – plus or minus the heeled shoes she held – she looked him directly in the face, leaning low to get under his brow and hold his eyes. 

She slapped him with her words.

His self-pity and rage swirled in the pit inside him, and he could barely process what she said. Sarcastic thanks? She’d fantasized about him? The word fool and garbage flitted through – he knew what he was – and then a hitched choke that added another perfectly placed, dramatic sob to the end. 

Although his upper brain was still trying to sort through what she’d just said, his lizard brain was still quick and in charge. 

_“The fucking door’s right there,”_ he snarled. She wanted to play on sympathies with crocodile tears? He’d counter with justified fury.

He’d have liked to stare her down till she was gone, but that hurt like a knife in the chest. And he should know, since that was something he’d experienced so recently! Instead of keeping his eyes locked on her, he turned his face away. 

His throat burnned.

His silent agreement of her self-deprecation and his cruel indication to the door sealed it for her. Part of her, deep down, hoped he’d see her anguish and apologize. Leave the bed and wrap his arms around her. But that wasn’t happening, and it wasn’t going to happen. That was clear. 

Maria felt the fire in her drain when Betelgeuse turned from her. What was the point of being angry? She nodded solemnly and looked at the door he’d so _kindly_ motioned to. 

“Right.” Her voice was soft. “Goodbye, Betelgeuse.” 

And it really ,i>was goodbye. She realized that then. There was a clear finality to her parting. That goodbye was a resolve to cut whatever semblance of a relationship, platonic or otherwise, they’d had. Maria mourned that loss. Packing away the memories of coy flirting, stupid jokes, and of his perpetual smile when he’d roll his chair over to pitch his latest _get out_ scheme. 

And she mourned the brief possibility of what _could_ have been. The flash of something seen only through the rose-colored glasses of an afterglow. 

He so firmly hammered the final nail in the coffin that now held this relationship – and no one had any final words before it was lowered down into the dirt. 

Another nod, only to herself, and she turned from him. Her heels still hung from her fingers as she padded bare foot to his door and left. 

She didn’t notice how long she’d been walking, busy filing away the decades of fond memories till she was left with the most recent one. The eternal red fog of the netherworld licked at her legs, and as she pushed their final night together down deep, she pressed her back against the closest building, knelt down into the haze, and cried.

The door didn’t slam. She left politely, as if to show she was superior. 

_He fucking knew that, didn’t she think he fucking knew that?!_

The atmosphere in his room changed the second Maria walked out and left it looking grimier, shabbier, and shittier than ever before. Beetlejuice grabbed both sides of his head and bellowed wordlessly: a rage-filled noise that probably rattled his dead neighbors. She led him on, she teased him, she used him, she made a fool of him … the same excuses he always heard echoed through his skull. She led him on, she teased him, she used him, she made a fool of him. 

Sheledhimonsheteasedhimsheusedhimshemadeafoolofhim over and over and over and over – 

She’d said **basura.** Garbage. That one word crept passed the others. 

In a terrifying moment of clarity, Beetlejuice realized she hadn’t called _him_ that, she called _herself_ that. 

She wasn’t garbage. He had been sincere when he called her hermosa. _Emperatriz._ It might have been the booze that loosened his tongue, but it only spoke the truth. He’d never met anyone like her in the Nether or Upper world. She made him laugh. She gave as good as she got. She was beauty personified. He liked her, and more than that, he _respected_ her. And now, and now –

– he’d continued to fuck over his existence. The weight of what he’d done, the sheer magnitude of how he’d treated her when she’d been nothing but supportive and caring –

A new sound ripped from his throat. Pain and suffering. Utter disdain for himself. Hate directed inward. He should run after her. He should find her and apologize; drop to his knees in front of her, prostrate at her feet, grovel belly-up and beg for forgiveness. He could never atone, but he could worship. But Maria made it perfectly clear she was done with him, rightfully, _agonizingly_ so, and all he could do was curl in on himself on his sagging, stained mattress, and weep.

_fin_


End file.
